Acne
by Bellsie805
Summary: God gave her pimples.


Title: Acne

Author: Bellsie

Rating: PG-13

Beta: Thanks Marti!

Summary: God gave her acne.

Written For: Wiccagirl

Assignment number: 19

Assignment: Three things you want to see in your story: Can be as specific or as general as you want.

1. House/Cam

2. Angst (can end happy, but I want some drama.)

3. Cam friendship (Wilson, Foreman, Caddy)

Three things you don't want anywhere near your story:

1. Stacy (aka the Devil)

2. Cam/ Chase (feel free to ignore that whole "drug induced shagging" thing)

3. OOC

Extra notes: I've spent a week fending off freaking pimples. I hate them. Thus the inspiration for this story.

Disclaimer: So not mine.

She used to have acne. It was mostly on the left side of her face and she had every type of head imaginable for years—white and black, clear and pink. Didn't matter. She had them.

Some would scar; most would fade.

;';

At the tender age of thirteen, Allison Cameron thought she was allergic to God. Those pimples kept popping up right after she left church. Her priest preached about fire and Hell and Heaven and angels…

Her mother told her to stop eating chocolate.

;';

She went to college and met Matthew, a good, Christian boy with faith in God that rivaled the Pope's. By this time, she had sworn off chocolate, chips, make-up, oil, grease…

She still had the pimples.

;';

She married Matthew when he was dying; she fell in love with Joe while she was still living.

At the funeral, she clung ferociously to Joe and her prescription-only acne medication.

;';

The scars and the pimples disappeared when she stopped believing that God cared about her or anyone else.

;';

When she got the job at Princeton-Plainsboro, she fell for one of the guitar players in a local band. She had been at the bar one night and was watching him play—the way he moved his fingers up and down the neck of the instrument sent shivers down her spine. She could imagine him in bed, trailing circles on her back—she could imagine the soft susurration of sweat and flesh and bodies on sheets silken and pillows cotton.

She prided herself on her imagination.

;';

The guitarist came up to her and went home with her. They did have sex, but it was all rough and tumble and wild horses flinging themselves across the open prairie. It wasn't gentle and caring and soft whispers of love in bed.

She knew why she didn't like rock musicians.

:';

Had House not smelled the sex on her the next morning she would have gone back and screwed the guitarist again. She wasn't stupid and she wasn't naïve. Hopelessly idealist, perhaps, but how could she ever be naïve again? Naïve—for the pathetic person who clings to the hope that her husband will recover from terminal cancer.

She lost her naïveté a long time ago.

;';

"Do you still like House?"

It's the end of her fellowship—when tomorrow comes, she'll be free to do whatever she wants—no commitments, no long-term dreams.

Wilson's question reverberates throughout the empty room. It's him, it's her, it's beer. And somewhere, in the room there are the ghosts of House and God.

"Mondays and Fridays."

"You're funny. He rubbed off on you."

"And his cologne's all over you."

"I borrowed one of his shirts this morning before work."

"Your wife kick you out again?"

"Allison, it's always the same. We fight; I leave. We'll reconcile tomorrow."

"Does she know you're spending your time with a pretty woman like me?"

"No."

"She thinks you're with House."

"She'd be happier to know that I was with you."

She grimaces into her beer and takes a long sip from it. Wilson looks at her with a mix of tenderness, lust, and pity—she hates the look of all three.

"Glad to know that I'm a better option than House. Or is he at the racetracks again?"

"Always betting on the horses. I wish he would move out of this damn state. Too dangerous for him here."

"He'd develop a habit in any other state, too."

"Like what?"

"Deer hunting in Pennsylvania."

Both laugh hysterically for a few moments propelled by beer and inane possibilities.

"Can you see him shooting things?" Cameron laughs.

"I can. Why can't you?" Wilson asks.

"Because House saves lives, he doesn't end them. He fends off death with his brilliance. I don't think House would be up for senseless killing. How can any man who so feverishly protects life administer death?"

"God, Dr. Cameron, I didn't know you were able to be idealistic and drunk at the same time," House says from the doorway.

"I'm not drunk!" She protests.

"Oh, yes. You're only slightly soused. I'm sorry, I forgot—you're Dr. Cameron, queen of good skin and hopeful ideas. Perfect."

(And when he snarls perfect she thinks that it could be a synonym for disgusting.)

"House, leave her alone."

"Let her fight her own battles," he shoots back at Wilson.

So Cameron stands up, beer bottle in hand, and waltzes over to House. She places her hands on his shoulders, glass just touching his shoulder blade. She sways in time to an imaginary melody and she hums an indistinguishable tune.

(There are 393 ways to unbalance a man with a cane. Dancing with him is one of them.)

"Don't you just love this? The movement of another body against yours—" she trails her palm down the front of his shirt, "—the feeling of another human being pressed up against you?"

(And she insinuates herself into the space in front of him—there is no air left. No gap is evident.)

"You're really drunk, aren't you?" He murmurs.

"I'm only as drunk as you want me to be," she whispers back.

(Wilson is ignored.)

They stand there—the alcohol intoxicates her and the scent of her makes him high. He's flying now—through clouds and space, stars and rain. She makes him happy; she makes him forget himself.

"I'm leaving."

But they don't notice that Wilson leaves, that he bids that good luck. There's Cameron's hips touching House's and there's lips touching lips.

"What will I do when you're gone?"

;';

As they lie in bed that night, he asks her why she doesn't believe in God.

"I don't like Him," she says.

"Why?"

"He gave me acne."

House laughs.

"Acne?"

"Yeah. Every time I went to church I would end up coming home with pimples. Lots of them."

"Did you ever happen to go to the dermatologist, oh-burgeoning-young-doctor that you must have been?"

"Nope. My mom told me to stop eating anything with grease and oil. You wonder why I'm so thin—my mother was convinced that if I avoided chocolate and chips that I'd get rid of the zits. Didn't happen."

"So, when did you decide God was causing you to have adolescent break-outs?"

"When my pimples disappeared after I stopped attending church."

"You're a superstitious, idealistic atheist. Have I told you how much you amuse me?"

(She's happy she can amuse him.)

:';

Sometimes, when the nights are dark, and it's been a long day at the hospital, she thinks about praying. She contemplates it. She thinks of God and the Bible and the angels. She thinks of Hell and Satan and all the things she's in for in the after life (even though she really shouldn't believe there is one as it is.) Purgatory, Jesus, Mary…

She never really liked her pimples.


End file.
